First Person Plural
by tarnished glitter
Summary: Roger has a serious psychological problem.. Not your typical depressed!Roger fic, I can promise you that. Different, weird, lots of angst. MR. (Chapter 7 now up)
1. Prologue

Notes: Ok, this might be sort of confusing at first. It's co-written between me and LadyBoston (she wrote most of Mark's lines, and possibly future characters). I don't really know what to say without giving it away.. Roger's got psychological problems, NOT what he has in most of my fics though. Not what you'd find in the usual depressed!Roger fic. Even though it'll be mega-confusing at first, please give it a chance.. I think it could develop into something really interesting.

Warnings: A lot of these. Self-injury (sort of.. more like just "injury"), heavy angst,  reference to past abuse, language, slash, possible trigger content. And M/R. Lots of M/R. 

Disclaimer: The boys aren't mine, though I'll probably throw in a few original characters later on.

            I'm different. I've been different for as long as I can remember, but lately… I have a secret. There's something wrong with me. And I don't mean that I'm depressed, or angry, or crazy, or psychologically disturbed… I'm all of these things, and yet, at the same time, I'm none of them.

            The noise in my head is constant. Voices… Not mine. Thoughts, so many thoughts. And the noise! The chatter, talking, arguing.

            Something has happened to me. I don't know what, but I know something happened… Something a long time ago that my conscious let me forget.

//Crazy. Fucked up. Not crazy! Neurotic. Same difference!//

            I cringe, trying to block it out. Even as I squeeze my eyes shut, counting in my head, trying to focus, I know it is useless. I feel a burning sensation behind my eyelids, and I dig my nails harshly into my palm.

//Don't cry. Boys don't cry. Why can't boys cry? Girls cry… I'm going to cry.//

I'm going to cry.


	2. Chapter 1

Thank you so much for the reviews! To be honest, I thought that this whole thing was going to be a flop, I thought it would be too confusing and no one would want to read it. I promise things will start making sense soon, be patient. :)

Notes: I forgot to mention this in the first chapter, p12 reminded me. The title of this story is from a book by the same name. Also, I decided that I'm not going to use the section me and LadyBoston (Lissa) wrote together, at least not right now. So, unless otherwise stated, from this point on, all the writing is done by me.

Disclaimer: Mark, Roger, and company, belong to the all-wonderful Jonathan Larson. Monty, however, is mine! Named after Adam and Cybele's new baby boy.

Dedication: For my lovely Lissa, for putting up with my complaining, for offering her advice, for encouraging me, for believing in me. You're my best friend, my life. Also, a big thank you to everybody at fragmentedminds. Thank you for welcoming an outsider into your community, for putting up with my stupidity and naivety, for answering me questions, for letting me into your world. An additional thank you to Sadina and Ash for taking the time to beta this for me.. It's much appreciated. :)

* * *

I stand in front of the sink in the bathroom, watching from afar a man's reflection in the mirror as his shaky hand holds a blade precariously above a muscled arm.

//I hate you. Look what you do to me!//

The mirror-man slashes the appendage, and distantly I wonder what is happening, why the man is doing this to himself. 

//I'm going to hurt you like you let him hurt us.//

//Devan, no, don't do this…//

//SHUT UP!//

Pain. Searing pain, swirls of red flowing down the drain, startling crimson against porcelain white.

Suddenly I start, and my body shudders... Like a vacuum, I'm sucked through a long tunnel to the front of my mind, filling it slowly, slowly, until I become the man in the mirror.

"Fuck," I whisper to myself, dropping the bloodied razor and fingering the gashes gingerly. "...Not again."

"Who was it?" I ask inwardly, aware of how crazy I would sound to anyone listening.

//'Devan. It was Devan.' 'Again?' 'Why? Why does he hurt us?'//

Inside, I sense confusion. Confusion, anger, hurt, and sadness.

//'Clean up. Now. Before Mark gets home.' 'Don't let him find us like this! He'll think we're crazy!' 'We are crazy.' 'No we're not…_Roger_ is.' 'Hey now, none of that.' 'Sorry.'//

I shake my head, turning the tap on the sink to clean my wounds. The wounds Devan inflicted on us. As the sink fills with soapy water, tinged pink from the tainted blood, I feel myself begin to drift again, and I focus on my reflection, struggling for control.

It wasn't always like this. There was a time, not so long ago, I remember, that things in my life were finally starting to go right, things seemed to be coming together. It was almost exactly a year after Mimi died that Mark and I got together. It was strange at first, kissing him, making love to him… He was my best friend, not to mention the fact that I wasn't even sure I was _attracted_ to men at the time. But then, in time, after we both got used to it, used to each other, things got good. No, better than good…amazing.

Shortly after that is when things started to change. The voices I'd always had inside of me getting louder, multiplying, separating from me, forming their own separate personalities. Then the dreams started happening. The horrifying nightmares, the pain, the guilt, the terror. Memories, but not my own.

Nobody knows. I haven't told anybody… we haven't told anybody. The "bigs" are worried that Mark will think we're crazy, will leave me, the "littles" are scared that he won't believe us. Me, I don't know which scenario is worse. To be labeled as crazy, sick, fucked up, or be taken as a liar and a fool.

Mark suspects though. He knows something's up, I can tell by the way he eyes our suspiciously clean room, usually so messy, how he stares at the sleeves that adorn my arms, despite the relative warmth of the spring. He doesn't ask though.

And we don't tell.

//Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies.//

Suddenly, the slamming of the front door jars me from my thoughts, and I quickly reach over to twist the lock on the door, scared that Mark will walk in and find us in this bloody state.

"Rog? You home? I got the gift for Monty's birthday."

//'Answer him.' 'Stay calm, focused.' 'Don't stutter, act natural.'//

"I'm in here, Mark! I'll be out in a second." I smile, almost bitterly, at my choice in words. _Out in a second_.

Tying the gauze bandaging around my arm, I turn off the running water and unplug the drain, watching the pink, soapy water swirl steadily downwards. Checking my reflection in the mirror, I smooth my hair and plaster a smile on my face before turning the knob and stepping out of the bathroom.

"Come see what I got!" Mark calls from the kitchen, hearing the door slide and approaching footsteps.

I walk in to find Mark, a huge grin on his face, holding up a bright blue teddy bear, black buttons for eyes, and a pink, heart-shaped nose.

"Isn't he adorable? Monty's going to love him!"

Monty's not the only one. I can feel a part of myself go wild at the sight of the teddy bear, and I'm filled with a wanting, a longing to hold the bear, to cuddle him, to call him mine.

'Don't even think about it,' I chastise. I can feel myself slipping away though, scolding unregistered, drifting to that back part of my mind that I so frequently visit.

Shudder, switch, and I'm gone.

"Oooh, teddy!" a childlike voice exclaims. My voice… Fred's words.

Mark quirks an eyebrow and frowns slightly as I reach for the bear, excitement written across my face.

"…Rog?"

Inside, I fight for control. I can see it all playing out, can feel the panic as voices call out, shouting suggestions, warnings, insults.

//'Someone shut him up!' 'Roger, do something!' 'I'm trying!' 'Idiot, now he's going to find out!' 'I HATE YOU!'//

"Roger!" Mark is snapping his fingers, aware that I'm not quite present.

Shudder, switch. I return to the front of my mind, regaining control.

"Oh, s-sorry," I stutter, forcing Fred to relinquish his death grip on the bear. I can feel him inside, crying silent, intangible tears. And I feel sorry that I can't give him what he wants. A stuffed animal, someone to play with, a coloring book, a pack of crayons. "I'm sure Monty will love it." I smile weakly, yearning to hide my burning face from view.

"Yeah."  Mark is looking at me strangely… Can you blame him?

"So, uh, what time are we leaving?"

"Maureen said to be there around three, Joanne will be bringing Monty home from school a half hour later."

I nod, distracted, trying to block out the commotion in my mind.

"Hey Rog?"

//'Huh? What's that?' 'Someone said something.' 'Wasn't me.' 'No, Mark! Mark's calling us!'//

Snapping my head up, I mumble, "Yeah?"

"Is there… anything you want to tell me? You've been acting strange lately, and I-"

"No, I'm fine." Smile, flash of teeth. Nothing wrong here, all quiet on the western front.

"Ok… if you're sure."

"I'm sure. So, hey, it's about 2:30 now… Why don't you go wrap that," I gesture to the bear still held in Mark's hands, "and then we can get going? It'll take about twenty minutes to get there, so we should have just enough time."

Mark gives me one last hard look, then looks away and towards our bedroom, giving a curt nod.

"You'll be ok for the party…right?"

I nod, swallowing down the sob I feel rising in my chest.

And then Mark walks away, leaving me alone. Not really though. Not alone, not truly. 

The one good thing about being crazy: You're never lonely.


	3. Chapter 2

Notes: Either my computer has a virus (again), or ff.net is _really_ messing up (again). I'd thank you guys for the reviews, but I'm not getting them and they're not showing up, so… Yeah. On a side note, I was just wondering if anyone else is having this problem with this site. In the misc/musicals section (and possibly others), when I try to view the "All" ratings, instead of listing the stories from newest to oldest, it's showing them from oldest to newest (and I have it set on "update date"). Could someone please e-mail me at Victoriacat14@aol.com about this? I just want to know if there's a problem with my computer, or it's ff.net again.

* * *

"Surprise!"

"AH!" Monty gives a tiny shriek from Joanne's arms, clinging tightly to the woman's neck. I'm guessing it was Maureen's bright idea to throw a surprise party for a six year old.

"It's ok, baby," Maureen soothes, stepping forward to comfort her son. "It's a birthday party! For you!"

Instantly, Monty brightens, and he struggles to be freed from Joanne, who laughs and places her adopted child on the ground. He rushes towards the table of presents, tearing into the first package he sees; It's from Collins, I can tell from the bright yellow wrapping, the same he used on our Christmas gifts the year before.

The wrapping falls to the floor as everybody laughs and coos at the six-year-old's antics. A coloring book.

My chest tightens as a part of me longs to rush forward and claim the book for myself, but I, for once, am able to resist, have won the fight for control.

For now.

Two hours later, Monty has finished opening his gifts, cake has been eaten, the traditional birthday song sung. Guests are just starting to leave, return to their own homes and lives, and Monty has settled down in front of the television watching Mr. Rogers and coloring in his new book.

Maureen, Joanne, Mark, and Collins are still seated at the kitchen table, gathered around a worn photo album, and sharing old memories, reminiscing on years past.

Me, I'm torn between joining the adults at the table in a vain attempt to appear "normal", and settling myself down in front of the TV with Monty to help him color.

Inside my head, a fierce battle over control takes place, and this time I do not win.

Shudder, switch. Fred.

Innocent smile tugging at my lips, I walk over to Monty and plop down beside him, reaching for a crayon.

"Whatcha coloring?"

The boy looks up, surprise written across his childlike features. But who is he to deny a new friend, a new playmate?

"Care Bears," he answers, grinning and shuffling closer to me so that we're sharing the book.

"Ooh, pretty! Can I help?"

"Sure!"

For the next fifteen minutes, Monty and I scribble away together, filling the pages with bright colors, rainbows, and shapes. But Fred soon grows bored of this activity and reaches for a blank piece of paper on which he can draw his own creation.

My hand moves quickly across the paper, but I don't know what I'm drawing. The shapes blur before my eyes, the words of phrases written in a child's hand smushed together.

Sometime later, I'm not sure how long, I hear somebody calling my name, but the hand does not stop moving as I scribble furiously, feeling the child within me, the one doing the drawing, growing angrier and angrier by the second.

//'What is he doing?' 'Stop it!' 'Hey, leave him alone, he's just a kid! He's just drawing!' 'But Mark is calling us! Snap out of it!'//

Suddenly I hear a loud gasp from behind me, and the piece of paper is ripped out of my hands.

Shudder, switch. Back to reality.

Dazed, I glance around the room, wondering why I am no longer sitting at the table with the others. Finally my gaze rests on the figure in front of me, Collins, who has a hand pressed to his mouth, staring intently at something I assume Monty must have drawn. Curious, I take a step forward and peer over the paper to see what's on the other side.

Curiosity, of course, killed the cat.

Collins stares at me, horrified. I gulp.

On the paper, sketched in child's sloppy handwriting, is a portrait of a young child kneeling in front of an old man who sits in an erotic position, hand on the back of the child's head, forcing him to come closer, closer… Streaming down his cheeks are crimson tears, and the caption at the top reads, "Sad Fred Someone save Us!"

It's the image from my dreams.

So much for childhood innocence.

"What's going on?" A voice tears through my thoughts and I look up to see Mark walking into the room, followed by Maureen and Joanne.

Collins is still shell-shocked, Monty is coloring without a care in the world, and I stand, frozen in place, unable to run, unable to hide, unable to do a damn thing.

"Holy shit!"

Maureen. She's looking over Collins' shoulder, along with Mark and Joanne, to see what has got him so horrified.

//Shit. Shit shit shit shit.//

"Did… Did Monty do that?" Joanne asks nervously, tears forming in her large brown eyes, imagining what must have happened to her son to cause him to draw such a picture.

"No." Collins breaks out of his reverie, folding the paper in half, obviously unable to look at the horrific scene any longer.

"Then…"

"Roger did."


	4. Chapter 3

Notes: I just wanted to say.. The thing Roger has in this story (don't want to give it away right now) is a serious problem, and not something to laugh about. If you want to flame me, go right ahead, but do it on my writing skills (or lack thereof), _not_ the fact that Roger is sick and hearing "voices". If you have a problem with it, you don't have to read. No one's forcing you. After receiving some.. upsetting reviews (most of which have been deleted), I'm not sure whether or not to continue posting this story. I'll keep writing, but as of right now, I'm thinking I might not post the rest of the chapters I have written. I'm not sure, but if I do decide not to continue with this, I'll let you guys know.  Thanks for reading, and sticking with this even though I know it must be very confusing. I also posted a sort of sidefic, almost a prequel, called Eternal Darkness. So if you're interested in how this all started, and why, you might want to check that out.

* * *

"So. When did you first begin having these dreams?" She smiles at me, face kind and reassuring, and carefully crosses her legs at the ankles, no doubt trying to put me at ease. By my side, Mark sits, hand clenching mine tightly, jaw set, as if trying hard not to cry.

I shrug, indifferent to it all. "Why does it matter? I mean… it's just a dream."

"Mmhm." She looks down at my picture again, studying it, memorizing and analyzing every detail. "And who is Fred? Is he someone from the dreams?"

"No, he's…" I trail off and bite my lip, unsure of what to say. A voice in my head, the child that lives in my body? Somehow, these things do not seem right to say to a shrink. "He's just… No one." I sigh and glace at the beige-colored wall, studying the framed diplomas from various schools, the relaxing paintings of a lake, a forest, a puppy.

Dr. Patterson fixes me with a gentle stare, and I twitch under her gaze, feeling myself starting to slip away again. 

Shudder, switch. Oh shit.

She notices the change right away, as she sits up a bit straighter in her chair, and her gentle smile becomes more forced.

"Fred? Fred, is that you?" she asks in a calm, caring voice, as if speaking to a child.

I shake my head, gazing down at the floor, and hear myself say, in a very feminine, high-pitched voice, "N-no… I'm Anna."

A part of me registers Mark start beside me, uncurling his fingers and pulling his hand back to his person.

"Hello, Anna," she continues, unabated. My name is Dr. Patterson, though you can call me Angie if you'd like. I'm here to help Roger, and you too, if you'll let me. Do you know what year it is?"

"1974?" comes the voice again, and from the corner of my eye I see Mark shift away from me even further, obviously terrified.

Silence for a second, and then: "Anna, I'd like you to look at me for a second. Can you do that?" Pause. "Good girl, just like that. It's not 1974. You're in no danger, nobody is going to hurt you anymore. Do you understand that?"

Anna nods, a bit unsure, but not wanting to seem impolite by voicing her doubts.

"Do you know how old you are?" Again, that gentle smile, comforting tone. It relaxes Anna, puts her at ease, and she slumps down a bit, body not so rigid.

"I'm t-thirteen."

"Ok Anna, I'd like you to do something for me, if you can." Anna nods, trailing her eyes down to the ground again. "Could you concentrate, and tell Roger that I would like to speak with him again?" Anna nods shyly, forcing out a tiny smile, and raising a hand as if to say goodbye.

Shudder, switch.

Like a hawk, Dr. Patterson's eyes narrow in on me and she relaxes a bit, leaning back in her black leather chair.

"Roger? Am I speaking to Roger?"

I nod, voice faltering, unable to speak, feeling my face turn several shades of crimson. I can feel my body begin to shake ever so slightly, and my palms are beginning to feel uncomfortably clammy. Mark, noticing the change in my demeanor, reaches again for my hand, comforting, although scared.

"Does this happen often?" Angie asks quietly, tilting her head to the side. "Does Anna come out a lot?"

I can feel tears beginning to prick at the corners of my eyes, and I do my best to blink them back.

//'Cat's out of the bag now, there's no use denying it.' 'You've really blown it this time, Davis. Way to go.' 'Oh shut up, leave him alone, it's not his fault!'//

"Rog?" Mark whispers next to me. "It's ok." He gives my hand a gentle squeeze, and I feel my heart swell with love and my mind cloud with relief.

//He doesn't hate us!//

"Roger," Dr. Patterson repeats, a bit louder this time. "I want to help you, but I need you to be honest with me."

I nod stiffly, unconsciously shifting closer to Mark, seeking comfort and reassurance.

"How long have they been there?"

//'Huh?' 'How did she know?' 'She doesn't, she's bluffing.' 'Don't tell! Don't you dare!'//

A shrug, a frown. "My whole life… sort of. I thought it was just me at first, just… you know, thoughts. But now…" I trail off, unsure of what to say next. How could she possibly understand, how could anyone? How could I ever explain that the voices in my head have formed their own personalities, that the thoughts I have are not my own, my memories someone else's? Impossible. Crazy. Just like me.

The rest of the session is pretty much uneventful, I manage to stay in control, though the struggle was a hard one. The minutes tick slowly by, and soon enough I see Angie's gaze shift to the digital clock beside her.

"Well Roger, Mark, we're out of time for today. I'd like to continue seeing you, Roger, I think I can help you, if you'd like."

"What's wrong with him, Dr. Patterson?" Mark asks nervously, and I cringe. _Wrong with him._ Something's "wrong" with me.

She pauses, lifting a finger to her lip, looking thoughtful. "I don't think it would be wise to talk diagnoses at this point in the game. It's too soon for that, though from what I can tell, it seems to be some kind of dissociative disorder."

Mark nods thoughtfully, I just stare at the thick blue carpeting, feeling disconnected.

"So what do you say, Roger? Think you'll be coming back for more of this?" She smiles warmly, and I can feel some of the tension in my shoulders ease. I think I like her.

I shrug, hesitating, mulling the question over in my mind. Well… what have I got to lose? It's not like seeing a therapist would make me any crazier than I already am.

"I guess so," I whisper quietly, after a moment's consideration.

"Great!" she exclaims, and Mark puts a hand on my shoulder, supporting, comforting me silently. "I'll pencil you in for next Tuesday, is that all right? I'd like to start seeing you twice a week, if your schedule will allow it."

I shrug, uncaring. "Sure, sounds…great."

* * *

Notes: Yeah, weak ending. Sorry 'bout that, didn't know what else to do.


	5. Chapter 4

Notes: Thanks so much for the wonderful reviews.. I feel sorta better now. For now, I'll continue to post this story. If I decide otherwise, I'll let you guys know. Oh, and about the journaling part in this chapter.. Heh, if anyone wants, I can post a translation, but I was told it wasn't _too_ hard to understand, so I figured I'd leave it for now. 

Dedication (yes, another one): To Lissa, for loving even the bad parts.

* * *

Time passes quickly. But at the same time, it feels as though I am stuck forever in one moment in history, one chilling moment from my past.

They feel it too. There are more of them now, I can hear them… feel their presence, though they have yet to make themselves known to anyone but me.

Dr. Patterson, after our initial visit, instructed me to go out and buy a journal, to write in it everyday. To not think, and just let it flow. That's what I'm doing now, and like that day Fred drew the graphic pictures at Monty's disastrous party, I am aware only of the fact that my hand is moving, forming words. What these words are, however, is unknown to me, my conscious.

I'm drifting again, but I struggle for control. I can feel myself seeping to that back part of my mind, and on the way, I pass someone coming forward. We acknowledge each other, as one would any stranger, but no words are exchanged as we switch places, and he assumes control.

Instantly, my handwriting changes from sharp and angled script, to childish, loopy print.

~were sad and were lonly. we wants somebodies to play with us like at the partie. we miss monty and colorin in books even tho mark doesnt lik the things we draws. we wants a tedy like montys. we wants the man to stop hurtin us. WE NO LIKE THAT! we never gets tim to play likes the other kids. we make roger no ignor us anymores.~

I'm looking through a dark tunnel, a tunnel in my mind. I can't seem to claw my way back, and I can't regain control. Suddenly, something shifts in my mind again, changing lanes in the pathway of my brain, and the hand pauses in its writing, skips a line, and continues in neat, controlled print.

~He's not giving us the body time that Angie told him we needed, and as a result, the littles are getting angry. Devan is acting out against the body, attempting to hurt Roger for his negligence. Anna's nightmares are increasing, as are Fred's flashbacks. Something needs to be done about this, about the denial. Roger needs to accept us, as does Mark. Some of the littles are scared of Mark, he reminds them of the man from our dreams. The same blonde hair and black-rimmed glasses, he even wears the same navy and white scarf. The system is out of control. Roger, you and the littles need to have a talk with Mark, explain it to him. David and I will help you lay it all out for him, we'll be there for you. But don't shut us out anymore, none of us appreciate that.~

Shudder, switch.

~Yeh, we wanna meet Marc! Pleeese Roger we wants to talk to him and play with him like in Dr. Patercin's offis!~

Suddenly, the shrill ringing of the phone reaches me through the thick cloud in my mind. The fog begins to lift, and I try to focus, staring at one spot on the wall, as I feel myself slowly regain control. My body is once again mine.

Rereading what I wrote during my absence, I am surprised and angry at the changes I notice in both handwriting, and spelling/grammar. Something – or someone – is taking over my body, controlling my mind, and I can do nothing to stop it. It terrifies me, but all I can do is sat back and let it happen.

"Roger?"

A voice, and the tentative knock on the door, bring me back to reality, and I tear my eyes away from the writing in the journal for long enough to glance up at the doorway to see Mark's concerned face hovering just inside.

"What is it?" I ask quietly, voice thick with emotion and barely above a whisper.

He steps in closer, seeming almost frightened.

"I… Uh…" He stops, clears his throat, and I detect a slight blush rising to stain his normally pale cheeks. "Can I talk to…Fred?"

Instantly, Fred comes rushing forward and I drift away and out of my body, just barely watching the events that are taking place, from above.

Fred smiles tentatively at Mark, frightened and unsure because Mark has never asked to speak to him – or any of the others – before. I can sense his fear, I can read his thoughts.. He thinks that Mark will hurt him, will do to him as the man in our dreams has done.

"Fred.. Is that you?" Mark returns the hesitant smile, though I know he's feeling uncomfortable, to understate it.

A slight nod of Fred's – my – head.

Mark's smile grows wider, and he reaches behind him and into a shopping bag on the floor that we hadn't noticed before. Too busy focused on the scribbling in the journal.

"I got something for you."

Fred lights up at these words, and he sits up quickly, practically bouncing on the bed.

"For me? For Fred? You mean, not Roger?"

"Yes, for Fred," Mark laughs, and from a distance I feel the warmth in my chest, the love I hold for him, spread, grow wider, expanding to fill my whole body.

Fred's eyes sparkle as he jumps up and tries to peer into the bag.

"What is it, what is it?"

And I feel the breath catch in my throat when Mark reveals a yellow teddy bear, identical to the one he bought for Monty, except for the color.

Fred is speechless, and for a moment he just stands there, staring.

//'How did he know?' 'He understands, he understands us!' 'Be careful, this could be a trick…' 'No, he cares, he's trying to understand.'//

"Ro- Uh, I mean, Fred?"

Suddenly, Fred rushes forward and latches onto Mark's neck.

"Thank you," he murmurs against Mark's chest, face buried deep in his blue sweater. "We always wanted a teddy."

Mark nods and reaches out to return the embrace hesitantly. "I know."

His voice is thick with emotion, and I hear his breath begin to hitch, as though he's on the verge of tears.

Fred must realize that we're beginning to frighten Mark, as he decides to relinquish control of the body to me, and I shudder, body shaking slightly as we change places.

I pull away slightly and look into Mark's eyes, reaching up to brush away the single tear that trails down his cheek, leaving a slippery trail in its wake.

"Roger?"

I nod, leaning in close to him again, more a gesture of comfort than one of love.

"Why?"

He shrugs, looking away. "You don't sleep anymore. He cries every night, you know. I just thought… Maybe this might help. Dr. Patterson said to make them feel comforted, and I know he liked Monty's, so…"

I nod. "He did…does. Uh…" I pause, remembering the words written in my journal. Devan's anger at being ignored, abused. Mike's concern over the littles' well being, his support, his comfort, his promise to back me up. Fred's sadness, his loneliness over being isolated, his fear, his longing for a friend.

"What is it, Rog?" Mark asks quietly, laying a comforting hand on my shoulder.

"It's just…" I sigh, wondering how to broach the subject with him. Would he _want_ to meet us? Would he be _willing_ to give us what we desire most?

//Only one way to find out.//

"They want to meet you," I blurt out, looking away quickly, ashamed of my craziness.

"I want to meet them."

I look up again, utterly shocked.

"Roger, do you remember when we first got together? How I told you that I loved you, all of you, every part of you? Even the bad parts, even the AIDS? I meant it. And these… these… people. They're a part of you too, and I meant it when I said I was going to love _every_ part of you."

I can't help it, I start to cry. And I can't help but think that maybe, maybe if Mark accepts them… I can try to accept them, too.


	6. Chapter 5

Notes: Oi. This was, by far, the hardest chapter to write. *kicks writers block* But I got through it, and I'm actually sort of happy with the way it turned out. Maybe. Anyway, I guess by this point most of you know what's wrong with Roger. But some of the reviews I've gotten have upset me a bit, since I have friends who have this, and well, a variety of other reasons. So I asked permission from one of the multiples I know if I could post the links to her websites (which I found _very_ helpful when I was reading up on this, researching so I could write this story), and she told me it was ok. Sooo, at the end of this chapter are some links on Roger's problem that I think you'd find pretty helpful, especially if you're one of the people who laugh when Roger refers to himself in the first person plural.

* * *

March Seventh, 2004. I'll remember this date for the rest of my life, however long – or short – that may be. The day it all came crashing down on me, the first time since my AIDS diagnoses in '96 that I let myself break down and cry.

"Dissociative Identity Disorder."

I look up, coming out of my trance, to stare at Angie's face, for once without that calm smile we've grown so used to over the past four months.

"Roger, I've been hesitant to use a diagnosis until now, but I think the time has come for that. I think that it will put both you and Mark at ease to know what's happening to you, and I think that I know you well enough now to make the call."

Don't switch, stay, this is important… Focus.

"I… I don't understand. Dissociative what?"

Angie settles down in her chair, folding her hands in her lap. "Dissociative Identity Disorder. It's the new name for Multiple Personality Disorder."

_Ring around the rosie_

"It's like this." She holds up a piece of yellow lined paper and holds it in front of her face. "A child is abused by someone they love, someone they trust – say a father – but the conscious mind cannot accept the fact that someone they love and trust could do that to them. So they dissociate, or space out, until the incident is over, so the child is protected, still safe. The conscious mind essentially removes itself, while the other part holds the memories of the abuse, the pain. When this happens repeatedly, this dissociated part begins to form its own personality." She rips the paper in half, holding the two pieces side by side. "And if the trauma continues, the dissociation is used again, and again, and again. Either the same part comes out, or, more likely, new ones are created." She rips the paper into thirds. "Eventually, these parts, the ones with the memories of trauma and abuse, begin to develop their own sets of characteristics, mannerisms, traits. Their own alter personalities."

_Pockets full of posies_

I swallow hard around the lump in my throat and try to blink against the burning sensation behind my eyelids.

"I… No, that's not possible. Not for me. I mean… No. I wasn't abused, I wasn't…"

"Roger." Her tone is wary. We've been over this, she knows it, I know it…on some level.

_Ashes, ashes_

"I _wasn't_! It's just a _dream_!"

Angie gets up then and moves to the couch so that she's sitting next to me, a comforting hand on my shoulder.

"Roger. You were abused."

_We all fall down_

* * *

**h t t p:/ /www.livejournal . com / community /fragmentedminds /** (a wonderful Livejournal community, you don't have to be multiple to join. They welcome anyone, as long as you're considerate, and they've answered many stupid questions that I've had, and have always been wonderful to me.)

**h t t p:/ /www.dividedminds .com /home. htm l** (the owner of the community's website. The most helpful website on DID that I've ever found, plus it gives insight into a multiple's mind, since the owner is one herself.)

**h t t p:/ /www .livejournal .com /community /squirtsnsprites /** (created by the same person, this LJ community is for the "littles" [child alters] and it definitely would be a good thing to check out if you're at all confused, curious, or amused, by how the child alters behave, talk, or write.)

Another helpful resource is the book, First Person Plural, by Cameron West. It's a fucking amazingly powerful book, it's what convinced me to change my major in college from theatre to psychology. Definitely worth a read.

(note: take out the spaces in the above links. Ff.net wouldn't let me post the links without it.)


	7. Chapter 6

Notes: Heh. Can we say sucky chapter? o.O Sorry.. This chapter doesn't really have a point, it's not going anywhere, but I wanted to put it in so I could introduce Roger's alters. To make things less confusing. Things will be moving faster from now on, I think, and the chapters will be longer. Thanks for being patient with me, and for the wonderful reviews. I was so excited when I saw that some of my favorite authors had reviewed my work.. Thank you all so much! Oh, and to answer your question, BohemianCane04, no, I'm not a multiple.. But I'm flattered that you thought so, because it means I'm at least being a little realistic. ^_^  Hehe. Enjoy! Reviews, criticism, thoughts, anything is welcome. 

* * *

Lately I've been staying up at night, just lying in bed and crying. Not for myself, but for them. For them, for Mark, and for everyone who has to put up with the craziness that my life has become.

For Anna, who cries every time we look in the mirror, at the pain she feels over being trapped in a grown man's body. I cry over her need for perfection and order, because no matter how much she cleans and washes and organizes, it is never enough. She will never have what she wants. A body, her own birthday, friends, a boyfriend. Someone who will see her not as a man, but for who she really is – a teenaged girl.

And I cry for Fred, who remembers the abuse, the pain, the trauma. For the fact that he, too, will never have what he so desires. A childhood, friends to play with, the innocence he has never known. I feel sorry that he endured that pain that was meant for me, and me alone. I am sorry that he remembers, and not me. I regret that it is him who cries in the night, him with the flashbacks, him with the memories. I want to take his pain away, even as I know this is impossible.

Then there is Mike, always so calming, so soothing. Angie appointed him as the "leader" of our sad little group, the protector. It is Mike who calms the littles when they cry, he who comforts Anna when she looks in the mirror, and Fred when he cries. He is the one to scold Devan when he cuts us, and to let him know that he is loved, despite his anger and acting out, despite the resentment he senses from the others in our system.

Sometimes I forget that Devan is just a child. Just a kid who doesn't know how else to express himself other than to act out, transform his pain and frustration into something physical, something tangible. I cry for him, too, because of the hatred he holds for everyone and everything, because he has never learned how to love, never experienced it firsthand. Despite what he thinks, I love him too, just like the others.

David, the "bad boy" in the group. It was him who was present for most of my drug addiction, and during my brief relationship with April. I feel his presence still, and in the time that he has made himself known to my conscious mind, the old cravings for my poison have increased. I sometimes feel frightened when he is out, I fear that he may go back to his – our – old habits. That he will drag the rest of us down, spiraling again through the throes of addiction.

We have all introduced ourselves to Mark. He does his best, he tries to understand as well as he can. He colors with Fred, watches soaps with Anna, reads books to Devan, and has discussions with Mike and David. He welcomes these foreign gusts into his apartment, into his life. He accepts us, and for this, we love him. The littles are no longer frightened by his presence, and have grown to trust him as I have.

I cry for them all. For Mark, for Anna, for David, Mike, and Fred. Not for myself though… never for myself.


	8. Chapter 7

Dedication: This chapter is for the wonderful Julia/Chriss who has helped me beyond belief by providing me _much_ information on the subject of (illegal) drugs and how they affect alters and people with DID. Also for everybody at fragmentedminds, you guys are amazing. Keep your spirits up, guys.

* * *

"Rog?"

//'Do it. Just do it, come on, you _know_ that you want to.' 'No, don't listen, don't you dare! It affects all of us, even the littles. You can't expose them to this.' 'Yeah, please no. We no likes that stuff! It's scary.'//

"Roger?"

//'Remember how good it feels… I need it. _You_ need it.' 'No!'//

"Roger!"

Someone's shaking me, hard. Suddenly my body gives a little shudder and I snap my eyes open, panting heavily. I hadn't realized that I had been holding my breath throughout the internal conversation. Trying to focus and drown out the commotion in my head, I look up at Mark, his hands still resting on my shoulders.

"Sorry… what?"

His expression looks like a mix between frustration and concern, his voice a connotation of anger and hurt. "I wanted to know what Maureen wanted."

Ah, that's right. The disastrous phone call, the event that triggered this current battle of the minds.

I close my eyes again, bringing my hands up to massage my aching temples. I don't want to talk about this. I don't want to _think_ about this.

"Roger?"

Mark's voice now sounds frantic. He probably thinks I'm spacing out again, so I open my eyes once again and give him a tiny smile that even I'm sure doesn't reach my eyes.

"Roger, please. You've been out of it all afternoon… What happened?"

//We've been out of it a hell of a lot longer than "all afternoon", Marky.//

"Maureen said that we – uh, I – can't see Monty anymore," I say quietly, a slight sigh emanating from my mouth.

Mark looks shocked, though he tries to hide the surprise from showing on his face.

"What? Why not?"

I shrug, looking away and focusing my attention on a large, purplish grape juice stain on the worn rug beneath my feet.

"That's horrible," Mark continues, "I'm going to call her… How can she do that? Does Joanne know?"

"It was Joanne's idea," I say simply, shrugging, and then walking away and into my room. I know why the couple did what they did, and to be honest, I can't say that I blame them. Monty is just barely six, he shouldn't have to be exposed to my craziness.

Lying down on my bed, the voice of David once again echoes throughout my mind.

//'You need it, Rog, you can't live without that stuff. Especially now, now that everyone's abandoned us.' 'No, that's not true, we still have Mark!' 'Yeah, and how long do you think he's gonna stay, huh? You think he won't get sick of this shit?'//

As much as I hate to admit it… David's right. I hate him, I absolutely loathe him for making the cravings come back, for making the withdrawal symptoms I've always feared and hated return ever so slightly. And I hate him for being right.

Deciding to take a walk to clear my mind, I rise from my bed and pull on my leather jacket.

"Where are you going?" Mark eyes me from the couch, and I can tell from his expression that he's angry about my walking out of the conversation before.

//Always running away.//

I shrug, not really knowing myself. "Don't know," I reply casually, and then walk out of the apartment without waiting for a response.

The second I am out the main door of the building, I feel my body give a tiny shudder, and instantly my posture changes from utterly self-conscious and unsure, to confident and cocky. I begin to swagger, and from the way I now ooze self-confidence, I can tell that David is out.

From the foggy place in the back of my mind, I can see myself traveling down a vaguely familiar path.

//'Where are we going?' 'I don't know.' 'I recognize this place…'//

Suddenly I feel somebody's presence behind me, and David turns around, flashing an arrogant smile at the man wrapped in a large overcoat.

//'Oh shit.' 'Somebody do something!' 'Don't let him do this, stop him. Now!'//

I try to claw my way back to reality, cursing David in my mind, but he is determined to stay in control, and I can't do a damned thing about it.

With an air of superiority to match David's, the nameless person in front of us reaches into a pocket inside his oversized coat and strokes something that we cannot yet see, though David and I know all too well what it is.

"Long time no see, Cutiepie. So what'll it be?"

* * *

Notes: Hah, I know, I'm so evil to leave you hanging here. :}  I couldn't help myself, sorry! I think I know where I'm going to go with this now, so hopefully it won't be too long before the next update. Thanks again for all the reviews, I love to know what you guys think. ^_^


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